


We All Limp

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drama, F/M, Missing Persons, Pining, Post-Troubled Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: A longer fic, not related to any prompts/collections.Robin has some serious work to do.Ratings/tags kept deliberately vague for suspense (hopefully!) but there will be strong language and mild violence.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 159
Kudos: 99





	1. Prologue

Prologue

Robin was soaked to the bone, footsore and tired. She crossed the road, approached the painted front door and rang the doorbell, waiting. A light flicked on in the hallway, and as she heard footsteps approaching, Robin was suddenly overcome with the notion that this might be a terrible idea. She had no time to reverse it, however, and the door swung open to reveal an elderly man in a diamond-knit sweater, smiling politely at her.

"Hello," she said, shivering. "You don't know me, but I know your -" she broke off, wondering what descriptor to use.

"I know you. You're Robin, aren't you?" Robin nodded. "Come in, love, you'll get pneumonia," he said, backing into the hall so that she could enter.

She wiped her feet on the doormat, a brown woven affair that said 'welcome', and closed the door behind her. She removed her sodden trench coat and scarf, hanging them on the hooks that were pointed out to her, and followed her host into a cosy sitting room, where a gas fire was roaring in the hearth.

"I'm sorry to impose like this," she began.

"You're not imposing, love, you're very welcome. Tea?" 

Robin nodded. As the man ambled into the kitchen, she gazed around the room. There were photographs all over the walls, in matching frames: mostly of a round-cheeked girl and a tall, hulking boy, represented over and over again, from babyhood to teens. Robin felt tears pooling in her eyes, and she took a deep breath, straining to keep them from spilling over. 

The man returned, carrying two mugs of dark brown tea. He set them down on the tiled coffee table, contemplated the bedraggled girl on his sofa, and lowered himself into his armchair. He was pleased to see her; they had gone too long without an introduction. And yet, he knew that only something serious would have compelled her to come. He watched her surreptitiously warming her hands by the fire, and waited. It was a trait he had perfected over years of managing a squad: say nothing, and you'll soon hear everything.

Robin brushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes and squared her shoulders.

"I'm sorry to bring this to you," she said. The man facing her didn't speak, but he looked at her expectantly, encouraging her to continue. Robin took a deep breath.

"He's missing."


	2. Before

"Cormoran, give it to me," said Robin earnestly.

"No, it's fine," Strike replied. It was 8pm in the office, and Strike was poring over the notes of his fifth case, trying to make sense of the latest photographs and trying to forestall the enormous yawns that were emanating from him every couple of minutes. Another night without much sleep had rendered him careless and prone to mistakes; he worked slowly, determined not to miss anything.

"I'm just going to be here anyway," insisted Robin. "You could at least hand over the prep for Darcy."

"You can't follow Darcy. You're too recognisable. You're the famous one these days," Strike replied, rubbing his face.

It was true. Robin had experienced the most furious bout of press interest of her career a few months earlier, when the partners had succeeded in resolving a high profile embezzlement case involving a very famous pop star and his complicit wife. Robin had been photographed entering the court, she had been portrayed by artists while giving evidence, and she had been featured in countless newspaper columns discussing her emergence onto the crime-fighting scene without any prior experience. Strike thought he knew why the papers had pounced on her: she had, by her facial expressions, made no secret of her disgust at the pop star's actions and so they were determined to provoke her into giving her side of the story. So far, however, she had kept quiet, her professionalism winning out as usual; the journalists had slowly given up staking out their office, helped by Pat, who had on several occasions shouted at them to sling their hooks.

The result was that Strike had taken on the majority of the surveillance cases, Robin taking interviews and research, so that Strike was now exhausted and Robin bored, having completed the research Strike thought would take weeks in a mere few days. Strike relented and gave her some of his photographs to look over, and they sat on either side of Strike's desk, sorting and organising, chatting amicably while they worked.

Robin wanted to say something to turn the conservation away from work. She had enjoyed the new level their relationship had attained in the months since they had solved the Bamborough case; Strike had been generally more open, although she still had to persuade him to confide in her when she saw the familiar shadows in his eyes that meant something was bothering him. Her favourite thing about their new normal, though, was his sense of humour. She hadn't imagined that he would be so funny; she had spent several evenings laughing while he made good natured quips about their friends, sarcastic barbs about passersby, and witty asides about their clients. She enjoyed the fact that their many inside jokes would be indecipherable to anyone else.

"It's been a while since we've done this," said Robin tentatively. "We're never in the office at the same time any more."

"That's true," answered Strike. "Occupational hazard of being a private detective, being alone a lot. But you've been here; you've had Pat to keep you company," he said, sniggering.

"I like Pat, you know that," replied Robin.

"She's annoying," muttered Strike.

Strike and Pat had never got along; since the day he hired her, Strike had found her grating. She was, however, capable and efficient. Robin had initially tried to encourage them to foster a warmer relationship, but had long since given up. She had her work cut out already, she thought to herself ruefully, without trying to get him to open up to other people as well.

"Well, she's very good," said Robin, for the umpteenth time.

"She won't stop prying. It's irritating," said Strike.

Strike knew that, indeed, his relationship with Pat had been much better since he had been struck down with food poisoning and she had brought him soup; he was always grateful for food, but more than that, he was touched by her practical thoughtfulness. However, in the time since that incident, Pat had become inexplicably nosy and, if he had read her correctly, perhaps a little flirty. She was at least fifteen years older than him and married, but she seemed to think that their new, tentative friendliness entitled her to probe for details of his private life. She slipped curious questions into her conversations with him, all of which he ignored.

"Why is it all right for women to prey on men, but not the other way round?" Strike continued.

"It's not," said Robin, surprised. "Is that what she's doing?"

"No, she's not," admitted Strike reluctantly. "She's just asking personal questions. I don't think she thinks they're personal."

"What kind of questions?"

"Relationships. You know," he said, with a sly look at Robin, "the kind you like to ask me after a couple of glasses of wine."

Robin felt her cheeks heat. She had admittedly made something of a habit of asking Strike how his love life was going, usually over drinks at the Tottenham, when their case discussions took them to the pub of an evening. She had thought that she had been subtle, weaving her interrogation between bland questions about his sister and nephews, and the brother in law he disliked. She was forever forgetting that she was attempting to deceive a detective; of course he had noticed.

"Well, if you don't like it, tell her to stop. That goes for me too," she said firmly.

"Ellacott, I'm joking. I don't mind you - I don't mind talking to friends about it. She's an employee, though." 

"Fair enough," said Robin, mind racing.

They worked in silence for a while, the wind whistling through the tiny gaps in the window frame. Time slid away from them in comfortable companionship, until eventually, Robin looked at her watch and realised it was almost ten. She leaned back, stretching, and her motion distracted Strike. He looked up at her and grinned, closing his notebook.

"Sorry. Long day, again," he said.

"It's okay. I'd rather help you out than -"

"I know."

Strike was looking at her softly, and Robin was filled with the unnamed emotion that she had frequently felt when alone with him, working, or just chatting about nonsense. She lowered her gaze and fiddled with her handbag, ostensibly packing up to go home, willing the blood in her cheeks to settle down.

"Are you going to be okay getting home?" asked Strike.

"Yeah, of course, I'll take the -"

"Taxi," said Strike, knowing full well that Robin had been about to say 'tube'. "I'll pay."

"You're not paying. But all right, I'll take a taxi. Worrier," she added quietly.

"Of course I worry. Why wouldn't I?" he asked, his serious expression incongruent with their previous joking tone; Robin blushed again.

"All right," said Robin, standing.

As Robin pushed up from her chair, her hand strayed to Strike's, laying on the desk. She gave it a quick squeeze, the hair on the back of his hand tickling her palm. Strike looked down at their joined hands for a second and then slowly raised his gaze to Robin's face. He leaned forward and made to kiss her on the cheek, but missed and caught her jawline. Robin felt warm tingles rush all the way down her neck as he pulled away and she looked back at him. A few seconds. She realised she wasn't breathing, and inhaled.

"Thanks, Robin, for today. For your help," Strike said calmly.

"Any time," replied Robin.

She gathered up her coat and handbag and wound her scarf around her neck, self conscious under Strike's gaze. She lingered longer than was strictly necessary, but he made no further overtures. She pulled on her coat, said goodbye with a cheerful wave, and left the office. She admonished herself for her awkwardness all the way down the metal staircase. _Why did you wave?_ _Ridiculous._

But, out on the street, Robin began to admonish herself for another reason entirely. Strike had kissed her. Kissed her, on the jaw, and it didn't feel friendly. She'd seen him interact with women on countless occasions: Lorelei, whom he had kissed briskly on the cheek, once, in front of Robin; Charlotte, whom he now treated like an angry snake he was careful not to disturb; Lucy, to whom he never seemed to come closer than three feet; and Ilsa, who was one of his two oldest friends in the world. She knew that he would never have kissed Ilsa like he had kissed Robin tonight: his lips caressing her jaw, his nose gracing her ear, his breath on her neck for the briefest of moments.

She rounded the corner of Charing Cross Road, slowing with every step. What if he'd done it deliberately? What if that was his way of testing the waters, and she'd missed it? What if she'd been bolder, and kissed him back? She might have been mere seconds away from him grabbing her and pushing her up against the desk…

She came to an abrupt halt outside the tube station. She'd had enough of what ifs. She turned on her heel and marched back towards the office, before she could change her mind.

Almost running back up the stairs, steps clanging, Robin realised that Strike must be able to hear her coming. She wondered what he would think. She wondered what she would say. She ran through options in her head, each more outrageous than the last; she shook her head and told herself to be sensible. Approaching the office, she took a few seconds to rearrange her hair in the reflection of the glass door, and then pushed on the handle. It was locked.

Robin looked down at her watch: 10:13. She knew she had left the office just after ten, and Strike hadn't seemed inclined to leave, despite his tiredness. She supposed he must have succumbed to the need to sleep and retreated to his flat upstairs. She briefly contemplated going upstairs and knocking, just to see his shocked face, to return that kiss to his stubbled jaw, to fling herself…

_ Enough, _ she told herself sternly. He was exhausted. She was overstepping already. She decided to take the locked door as a sign, and so she turned once more to the ancient staircase and descended, feeling lonelier with every step.


	3. Late

Robin woke the next day with renewed optimism. Despite her lack of bravery the night before, she told herself that all the signs were good and that each step, however tiny, was taking her and Strike towards what she hoped was their shared goal. She looked forward to working more overtime.

She carefully arranged her hair in a high ponytail, and considered the choices in her wardrobe. While she knew that Strike's treatment of her would be the same whether she was wearing jeans or a ball gown, she also knew that he tended to bestow more lingering looks on her when she wore skirts. She chose a long grey pencil skirt, thinking that those looks might just give her the confidence she needed. With a brief greeting to Max as she passed him in the kitchen, Robin swept out of the door and headed to work early.

Arriving in Denmark Street just after 8am, Robin reflected that it had only been ten hours since she was last here. She could certainly see the advantages of living above the office. But then she faltered in her thoughts: a developer was looking to buy all the properties in the street. Strike's convenient living arrangement might soon be ripped out from underneath him. She wondered absently whether Max might ever move in with his new boyfriend, and thus need a new tenant to rent his room.

Robin let herself into the office, hanging up her coat, scarf, and handbag, and flicking on the kettle. She made herself a strong coffee and drank it by the window in the inner office, watching a starling on the rooftop opposite. Despite her early arrival she was in no hurry to begin work; she felt entitled to sit, content, and wait for Strike in the place she felt most at home. She listened for footsteps above but, hearing none, assumed that he was still asleep. She hoped that he'd managed to get some decent rest.

Nine o'clock came and went, and Pat's arrival spurred Robin to grab the files on Darcy and start their preparations. While Strike would be doing the actual surveillance, she figured she could do the initial legwork online; she could find photos of his workplace and the name of his gym. She even managed to find, via an archived page of a property selling website, a floor plan of his house. Finally pasting all her findings into the cardboard file, because Strike was still yet to move over to digital storage methods ("best cyber security in the world. You can't hack a cardboard file, Robin"), Robin realised that it was nearly 10:30, and Strike had still not arrived. 

A brief note of secondhand embarrassment touched the edges of Robin's positive mood; she knew that Strike would be mortified that he had overslept and, what was more, given that Pat had been in for an hour and a half and Hutchins had dropped by briefly to pick up some equipment, that his employees knew about it. Robin dialled Strike's number and waited, feeling that although it was not the first time, this might be the worst. She then heard the beeping sound that told her the number she had called was not in service.

Robin redialled, thinking. She knew Strike's phone received a good signal in his flat; she had spoken to him on the phone on countless occasions when he had been at home. She also knew that the weather had been fairly windy for May, but surely not bad enough to affect the phone networks. She received the same tone once more, and tried again, but she realised it was a waste of time; if he was in an area where there was no service, she could redial a million times and never get through. As she was about to lower the phone and hang up, however, it started to ring. She waited - three rings - four - and then the call was cut. She dialled again. No service.

Robin paced the office, confused. Why would Strike have service for a brief moment, and then nothing? Her imagination showed her several possibilities, from walking under a canopy of trees that had a sudden gap in it to travelling on a high speed train through patches of varying signal. But none seemed to make sense; he had been intending to come into the office. He would have told her if his plans for the day had changed.

Robin thought for a minute, then put her phone back in her pocket and headed back into the outer office. Pat looked up as she entered.

"He decided not to show up after all, then?" Pat said, with a tight smile. Pat seemed to resent when the agency's workers failed to keep to her meticulously organised rota. Robin silently debated what to tell Pat. Honesty fought with loyalty in her mind, and lost; allegiance to Strike gave her little desire to feed Pat's thirst for gossip, given Strike's concerns from the night before.

"Change of plan. He's running surveillance," she told Pat. "He'll be back tomorrow."

Robin grabbed her coat from the rack, and pulled it on. "I'm just nipping - to the shop. Down the road. If he calls, Pat, will you put it through to my phone?"

"Yeah, course I will," Pat answered.

"Thanks," said Robin, and she left the office.

As Robin turned to go upstairs rather than down, her thoughts turned to the last time Strike had failed to arrive at the office on time. She had later learnt that he had slept with a supermodel. A group of memories was now opening itself up to her recalcitrant mind: Ciara Porter, contacting him in the aftermath of the Shacklewell Ripper case and asking if he wanted to grab a drink; Izzy Chiswell, telling Venetia that she'd always fancied him; Charlotte, telling him she wanted him back. He'd only told Robin this several months later. Robin was again frustrated with herself for not returning his kiss the previous night; had he felt a rebuff she hadn't intended, and sought solace in the arms of another woman?

Robin reached the door of Strike's flat, and raised her fist. She knocked - and the door swung open.

Stepping over the threshold, Robin felt a hot, sick feeling swoop from her stomach and up her throat as she remembered walking through Jasper Chiswell's front door and finding him prone in his armchair, having breathed his last breath inside a weaponised plastic bag. Robin was aware that her breaths were too shallow. 

She walked further into the flat, noting the empty sink and drainer, the bare dining table, the closed curtains. It seemed clearer by the second, as she paused to listen, that Strike was not there. She backed out of the flat, touching nothing, and tried Strike's phone again. The repressive beeping noise made her decision for her; she rang 101 and asked to report a missing person. 

"It's the detective, Cormoran Strike.  _ Strike. _ He's been in the news. He's missing," she said, trying, now, to hold back tears.

***

The policeman who sat across Robin's desk looked young enough to still be in college. Robin had sent Pat home and the policeman had arrived within forty-five minutes, which, he assured Robin, was within the Met's operating standards. He had spent the first fifteen minutes of their acquaintance trying to make his tablet stop installing updates and open a notes app so that he could take Robin's statement. She had offered him a notepad, only to be met with a blank stare and a half laugh, as though she'd made a joke. Robin's head had started pounding approximately three minutes after he'd arrived.

When she was finally permitted to tell the story, she had to tell the young PC several details multiple times. He failed to note her insistence that Strike would have told her if his plans had changed. She repeated that Strike's front door was unlocked. She explained, again, about the lack of phone service interrupted by one brief successful connection. She had the increasing feeling that she was doing a terrible job of explaining, or was he doing a terrible job of listening? Her head pounded worse than ever.

"So the guy is 40, he lives alone, and he's not shown up for work today. He's a single guy, he used to be a soldier… all correct?"

"Yes," Robin replied slowly, "but it's his own business, and he's pretty dedicated to it. He's a detective, he wouldn't leave his door unlocked." She took a deep breath, internally apologising to an invisible Strike for what she needed to say. "He's also disabled. He lost a limb while he was in the army," she said through gritted teeth. She knew he would never have volunteered the information.

"Ok, yeah. Any mental health problems?" 

"Not -"

"Has he got kids?"

"No, but -"

"Ok, Mrs Ellerton -"

"Ellacott."

"Right. We're gonna designate him as a low risk, and there'll be a review within 48 hours. You can call this number for updates," he said, handing her a card with the name 'PC M. Renton' on it. "In the meantime, maybe try ringing round his mates, family, you know. Chances are he's just got drunk and crashed on a mate's couch, you'd be surprised." He spoke in an almost soothing tone, as though he thought he was reassuring her. 

Rage was building in Robin's brain; she had known that the chances of her being able to speak to Wardle, or Vanessa, or even Anstis, whom she'd never met, had been remote. However, she had hoped that the person attending would have some understanding of what a missing detective might mean.

"Listen to me. He's a  _ detective. _ He basically makes enemies for a living. He's been all over the news. People know where he lives. He is likely to have been a victim of a serious crime and he could be lying injured somewhere, and the next few hours are important. The last few bloody hours were important, but there's nothing we can do about that now." She stood up and turned away, rifling through the drawer behind her. "What you can do now, though, is designate this high risk and  _ find him _ . Find out why his phone is out of service. And you're damn right I will want updates; you can call this number." She thrust her own business card at him.

***

The evening found Robin curled up on her sofa in her pyjamas, a large glass of wine in one hand and her phone in the other. After a few minutes' deliberation, she dialled. The voice on the other end was the first comforting thing that she'd experienced in the last 24 hours. 

"Hey, girl," said Vanessa. 

"Have you got a minute to talk?" asked Robin.

"Sure," Vanessa replied.

It soon transpired that, while Vanessa hadn't been asked to work on the case, she had heard about it; as a friend of the missing person, she had been consulted unofficially. Robin filled her in on the details, hoping for some details of the police procedures in return.

"What have they done so far? PNC alert? Mobile phone company?"

"Yeah, all that. They didn't know which network -"

"I told Renton it was EE! For fuck's sake," Robin muttered.

"- but they know now. Not hard to narrow down. And they've been to the flat again, given it a good search. You haven't been back, have you?" asked Vanessa.

"No, they taped off the stairs before I left the office."

"Good. You know, Robin, your guy isn't well liked around here. They all think it's hilarious that the great detective has gone missing. One of them even said they should just wait and see if he solves it himself. I'm not saying they're not gonna do their jobs, but I think all you can expect is the bare bones. If you want to think outside the box…"

"Understood," said Robin grimly.

"There is one thing you're gonna want to know. But you didn't hear it from me, ok?"

"Sure," she said, "what is it?"

"They found Strike's mobile battery on the floor of his flat, and a section of the door frame that had been broken off. As of 4pm this afternoon, they're treating it as a kidnapping," replied Vanessa.


	4. Questions

The last time Robin had found herself in an interrogation room, she had been discussing evidence regarding a serial murderer whom she and Strike had helped to put away for life. The atmosphere then had been collaborative; she had been treated as a friend, a useful colleague. This time was altogether different.

"I'm DS Colin Wyatt, and this is DC Beth Anderson. We just want to ask you a few questions, clear some details up, ok? Nothing to worry about," he said breezily. His words did nothing to alleviate Robin's worry.

"I just want to go over what happened on the night of the 13th. You told PC Renton you left the office at about 10pm. So Mr Strike left after you?"

"I suppose so. I went back and the door was locked, so I assumed he'd left."

"Is that time normal? For you to leave the office?"

"Not really. Lately we've had a lot of surveillance cases, and I'm too recognisable, for now. Cormoran - Mr Strike was doing most of them but he was getting behind on paperwork. I was helping him," she finished simply.

"Ok. And the relationship between you?"

Robin hesitated.  _ This could take a while, _ she thought ruefully. 

"How's that relevant?" She felt colour rising in her cheeks, and she felt worse when DS Wyatt looked up at her.

"I mean professionally, Miss Ellacott. He's your boss?"

"Oh, no. We're partners. I'm salaried, though. He's equity. He's the founding partner," she gabbled.

"Have you had any contact with him since 10pm on the 13th?"

"No. I tried calling him a few times, but I never got through. He mostly had no service, but there was one that rang. It got cut off, though," she explained.

"See, the thing is," said Wyatt slowly, "we spoke to Pat Chauncey, and that's not what she said."

Robin fought the urge to put her head in her hands. "What did Pat say?"

"She said the last time she saw him was the afternoon of the 13th. He asked her to add some information to the rota. She remembers because he said he was sorry for her wait, for the information, but she thought he meant her  _ weight _ , you know," he gestured to his stomach. "She said he'd specifically told her he was coming in the next day, but that you must have spoken to him on the morning of the 14th, because you told her that he'd changed his plans."

"Yes, I did say that. But I didn't say I'd spoken to him," said Robin firmly. "It's a long story. Pat's a bit, well, nosy. Cormoran had told me he didn't like her intruding, and when he didn't show up I thought he might be - at someone's house. After a date, you know." She blushed furiously. "I didn't want to give her any details she didn't need to know. Obviously, I didn't know this would happen," she said, glaring at him.

Wyatt returned her glare unflinchingly.

"You're blushing, Miss Ellacott. Are you in a romantic relationship with Mr Strike?" he asked.

"No," said Robin. "Can I get some fresh air?"

Robin was permitted to take a break and go outside. Clarifying that she wasn't under arrest or even under suspicion, she insisted on going alone, even though Wyatt was keen to deploy his colleague to accompany her. Robin headed to the grassy verge outside and took a deep breath, raising her face to the dull sky. With a sinking feeling, she dug out her phone and dialled. 

"Hi. I think… I think I need your help," she said.

***

Robin spun out her break for as long as she could, asking for directions to a bathroom and slowly washing her face. She was accompanied, now, by a stern-faced female officer who seemed to take Robin's slowness as a personal affront. Robin hoped the journey could be undertaken by car in fifteen minutes. However, when she had done everything she could think of doing and the officer began to make tutting noises, Robin saw no alternative but to finally allow herself to be steered back into the interview room. She sat back down on the hard seat, hoping she wasn't about to say anything stupid.

"So, Miss Ellacott -"

The door banged open and Robin felt a flood of relief as the pale, bespectacled woman strode in.

"Ilsa Herbert, QC," said Ilsa, stretching out her hand. "Thought I'd come and join the conversation. I assume that's ok with you," she said blithely.

Robin caught Ilsa's eye and tried to convey heartfelt thanks with no more than a look. Whether Ilsa understood or not, she took her seat smartly and looked expectantly at the interviewing officer. Robin turned back too, and Wyatt addressed her directly.

"Did you ask Ms Herbert to come here?" he asked.

"Yes, I did."

"You realise you're not under arrest?"

"Yes. But I feel -"

"Miss Ellacott is completely happy to help you with your enquiries. I'm just here to navigate any legal issues that might be raised," Ilsa interrupted.

Wyatt looked almost satisfied, which worried Robin even further. "Ok, so let's go over what you said before Ms Herbert arrived. You were working with Mr Strike on the night of the 13th, and he left after you did -"

"Miss Ellacott was working with Mr Strike on the night of the 13th, and  _ she _ left at approximately 10pm, when he was still there. She has no idea when he left the office, or indeed if he left at all," interjected Ilsa.

"We have evidence that Mr Strike returned to his flat, signs of a struggle…"

"Of course," said Ilsa, smiling. "But as Miss Ellacott doesn't know what Mr Strike did after 10pm on the 13th, it isn't part of her statement."

"Sure," said the officer, striking through something on his notes. Robin felt a wave of gratitude towards Ilsa.

***

"Am I in trouble? Do they really think I did something to him?"

Robin and Ilsa had emerged into the weak sunshine just under an hour later, the latter folding notes into her handbag and hiking it back onto her shoulder. Ilsa turned to her friend and sighed.

"No, I wouldn't say so. They do think you know more than you're letting on, though. You know how it is, Robin. You've given a story that's inconsistent with Pat's, whom you sent home before the police could arrive. You now look like you've given different stories at different times -"

"Only because that first copper was bloody useless and didn't listen to me!"

"- and it doesn't help that you turn bright red any time anyone mentions Cormoran," Ilsa finished doggedly.

On cue, Robin's face heated once more. "I can't bloody help that."

"Is something going on between you?" asked Ilsa. At Robin's expression, she smiled and raised her hands. "Asking as your lawyer, Robin."

"Well, no, there isn't. There was a… moment. On the 13th. He kissed me. On the jaw," she mumbled.

"He kissed you on the jaw," Ilsa repeated.

"It was more than that, it was - it felt like - look, why am I even explaining this?" Robin felt suddenly close to tears again.

"Look, it's ok," Ilsa assured her, reaching out and rubbing her upper arm briefly. "Just call me any time they ask to speak to you, all right?"

"I will. Ilsa, thank you," Robin said emphatically.

"You're welcome."

"There's one more thing you can do for me, if you don't mind," said Robin.

"Sure," Ilsa replied.

"I need a phone number."

  
  


***

Robin spent the next few days travelling everywhere she could think of with any connection to Strike. She spent an awkward afternoon visiting his sister, who sobbed intermittently and lambasted herself for ever letting Strike live alone; she travelled to Cornwall to talk to a dismayed Ted and an outraged Dave Polworth; she even met Al Rokeby in a tiny bar in Belgravia, where he paid the £12 for her glass of wine and offered to help in any way he could.

Robin slept little; she couldn't stop herself ruminating on the dreadful things that could have befallen Strike. She knew how resourceful Strike was, and that he would have tried to call the police. But the police had found his phone battery on the floor. His door frame had been broken. Robin's mind circled round and round. She was exhausted.

She tried to picture the scene: Strike going home, not locking the door. She supposed he would do that last, before bed, and so he must not have wanted to go to bed yet. She pictured him making a cup of tea, but then she remembered the empty sink, the bare table: so he didn't make tea. What did he do? Smoke, perhaps? But there was no ash in the tray. The television hadn't been left on. The whole thing must have happened fast, in order to escape her notice when she had returned with amorous intentions, so there was little chance Strike's abductors had tidied up after themselves. Robin therefore surmised that Strike hadn't been drinking, smoking, or watching TV. 

She had to conclude that Strike had been using his phone. It would have been in his hand when the kidnappers had turned up, smashing their way into the room; Robin screwed up her face, concentrating. He ought to have tried to dial 999; why hadn't that happened? Had the kidnappers simply been too quick for him? Or had he been in the middle of dialling another number, meaning he had to delete it before he could call the police?

As Robin waited for a call back from the contact Ilsa had passed on, she tried to think who had such a grudge against Strike that they would resort to kidnap. It seemed a strange thing to do, to kidnap a six foot three ex-soldier, but then, thought Robin, they might be sadistic enough to want to hurt him over a prolonged period. Her hands trembled, and she clamped them together, breathing hard. 

When her phone finally rang, she scooped it up and answered on the first ring, desperate to start digging for some answers.

"Hi, Robin, isn't it?"

"Hi. Sorry, I don't know your real name - I only know you as Spanner," said Robin apologetically.

"That'll do. Federico in trouble?" asked Spanner.

"If you mean Cormoran, yeah. I need some help, Spanner, if you don't mind."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Can you turn a phone on remotely and track it?"

"Not without a battery, no," said Spanner sadly.

"How d'you know -"

"Ilsa told me. The police'll be doing what they can, surely?"

"Yeah, I'm not sure the police are interested in doing anything other than asking whether we're having an affair and bloody waiting for him to turn up," muttered Robin.

Spanner seemed to take pity on her. "I can try and see what the phone was doing before the battery was taken out, or if it's had a new battery put into it since. It's not an exact science though, and you generally need a few minutes of good signal before you can get a good trace." He paused. "If the police haven't managed to get anything, I doubt I will," he cautioned.

"It's fine, Spanner, I'd really like you to try anyway though, if you could," replied Robin.

"Sure. I've got the number. Don't suppose you've got the serial number on the SIM, have you?" 

"No," said Robin warily.

"No worries, I'll find out. Provider's EE, is it?"

"Yeah," she said, smiling despite herself. "Thanks, Spanner."

"I'll get back to you," and he rang off without salutation.

***

Robin ate pasta that she barely tasted, and then laid awake for several hours, staring at her white ceiling, wishing she could do more. She eventually fell into a fitful sleep, interspersed with dreams of broken phones and empty flats.

Robin's phone buzzed in the darkness, lighting up the room with a bluish glow. She fumbled for it blindly, desperately; in her sleep-fuddled state, she realised just how much hope she was pinning on Spanner. As she raised the phone to her ear, however, she noted the withheld number.

"Hello?"

"Robin, ain't it?" said a rough cockney voice.

Robin heard industrial sounds in the background: clatters and clangs, tyres crunching, and men shouting. One voice seemed particularly close, and seemed to be yelling instructions. She vaguely registered him shouting 'drop' and 'place' before the caller spoke again.

"Oi. You there?"

More confused than ever, Robin checked the time: 4:23am. Who was calling her? Why was it so noisy? She tried to shake the sleep from her mind.

"Who is this?" she asked firmly.

"Let's call me yer new best mate, all right, darlin'? You wanna see yer man again, eh?" The voice cackled. "'E's an 'eavy bastard, innee? Broke his door frame off tryna gerrim outta that flat. But we got there in the end."

"What the f-" Robin scrambled out of bed. "Who are you?"

"Meet me at the pond at Clapham Common at six," he said, "an' you'll find out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a techie person so if I've got the technology bits wrong, please suspend belief for me! 😃


	5. Search

Robin arrived at Clapham Common at 5:45, looking around surreptitiously for a man who might fit the rough accent she had heard on the phone. She had rarely visited this area of London, and she didn't know the pond itself, but there were decorative signs guiding her way. She walked quickly along the gravel path, wishing she had Strike, or someone, by her side.

She had called the police; calling DS Wyatt's direct line this time, she had explained what she had been asked to do. Unfortunately, however, Wyatt wasn't on shift until much later that morning, and his underling had advised her not to turn up to the meeting, and to turn her phone over to the Met in case the man called again. Cursing their unhelpfulness, Robin had hung up while the detective constable was still in mid-sentence. She needed her phone in case Strike called her. And there was no way she was failing to turn up to Clapham Common.

She had therefore arrived on time, and positioned herself in clear view of both pathways towards the pond. She was also just within view of a café quite close to the pond, if a viewer there happened to be sitting on a bench outside, ostensibly to watch the birds flying low over the common.

Despite the sunshine, Robin shivered inside her trench coat; she stood to wait, not wishing to be caught off guard. Six o'clock passed her by, and she began looking at her watch every five minutes; at six thirty, she wondered if she'd got the wrong pond.

At six forty, she checked her phone, although she knew it hadn't made a sound. As she pulled it out of her pocket, it started to ring. She raised it to her ear, but said nothing, watching. She heard a rasping breathing on the other end.

"All right, darlin'? Bit of a problem, ya see, I'm a bit swamped right now, I'm not gonna make it."

"Are you just fucking with me?" burst out Robin.

"Love, ya don' arrange to meet a bloke wi' anuvver bloke in tow. Hurts me feelings."

Robin gasped. "What do you -"

"Scots bloke outside the caff? Don' act stupid, darlin', it don' suit ya." He cackled again. "Honessly, I weren' gonna come anyway," he laughed. Robin felt a prickle of awareness as she registered that she was being watched.

"What do you want from me? What do you want with him?" pleaded Robin.

"I tell ya what, why don' we meet proper, and I can tell ya what it's all abaht? Definitely meet ya this time, all right?"

"No," said Robin vehemently. "You're winding me up. I don't even know that you've got him," she ventured.

"All right," said the man again. Robin heard a scraping noise, and then a muffled thud that sounded like a kick on fabric. A second later -

"Robin?" Strike's weary voice shot terror through Robin's veins, and she barely held onto the phone in her numb fingers.

"Cormoran? Are you ok?" she said weakly.

He suddenly spoke fast. "Warehouse, under twenty minutes from office, changed vans at -" Another thud, and Robin could hear the rasping breathing once more. 

"Satisfied? Now, meet me at that pond tomorra at six, an' come alone this time, an' bring all the cash you've got in the world, y'understand? I'm expectin' in the ten thousands," he said firmly.

"Is that what this is about? Money?" demanded Robin.

"Sorta. Not completely, but it 'elps," he replied.

"Well, I haven't got that much money," Robin said truthfully.

"Six o'clock, Robin."

***

Robin sent everyone away from the office, including Barclay, whom she had thanked profusely but nevertheless wanted to be rid of. She set herself up at the partners' desk with the office computer, her own laptop, and copious amounts of coffee. She was determined to go to Clapham Common again the next day, even if it was another trick; she might get to hear his voice again.

But she needed  _ something  _ to go on, she told herself; she was currently flailing blindly, unable to do anything besides rage against the police and do everything the mysterious caller told her to do. She had already phoned Spanner once more and asked him whether he could trace the call. He told her that he feared she was getting her impressions of his abilities from cheesy movies, and she was forced to admit that she knew very little about the concept. She accepted a whistle-stop tour around the basics of phone hacking and tracing, and then thanked him for his ongoing efforts. He assured her he would keep trying until 'Fed' was returned safely.

Robin took a fresh notebook and a pen, and started to write everything she knew.  _ People. _ Strike had gone missing. Besides herself, Pat was the last person known to have seen him. Pat had gone home at five. Robin felt a surge of anger at Pat, even though it wasn't the secretary's fault; Robin wouldn't have wanted Pat to lie for her and all Pat had done was tell the truth, but she had reinforced the police's view that Robin was a liar or at best, a dramatist. Robin went back to her notes. Pat had spoken to Strike. Robin snorted as she pictured Pat mistaking 'wait' for 'weight', and Strike's horrified expression as he rushed to clarify.

_ Places, _ thought Robin. Strike's flat. His battery had been left there, but his phone was gone. So the kidnappers had acted quickly in removing the battery and discarding it. This suggested an element of preplanning. Robin added the kidnappers to her list of people, and she noted that she had always thought of them as a group, rather than a single person, despite only having spoken to one of them. She mentally doubled down on this assumption, though she knew Strike would have advised against it; she knew that Strike would have at least an even chance against a lone man. He had fought off the Shacklewell Ripper empty handed, when the latter was equipped with a carving knife and a machete.

She added Clapham Common to her list of places, and then remembered Strike's attempt to tell her where he was. A warehouse, he'd said, less than twenty minutes from the office. She assumed that was by car, not on foot; he'd mentioned changing vans and in any case, his being dragged through London on foot for twenty minutes, even at night, would have attracted a lot of attention.

She turned to the computer and brought up a map of central London. She searched for the office and set it as the centre point of the map, then sent the image to the printer. While the printer stuttered and whirred in the outer office, Robin started searching locations that she thought were about a twenty minute drive from the office. When she had found several, in different directions, she retrieved the printout and a felt tip pen, and marked them on the map. She then used a pencil and some string to draw a neat circle with the office at the centre. She stared at her 20-minute radius zone for a long time, trying to imagine where a kidnapper would go. The problem was that the area covered about sixty square miles.

Robin recalled another place: wherever the caller had been when he'd called her around 4am. There had been loud noises in the background, although nothing distinctive; she remembered some unremarkable words and generic greetings. Nevertheless, she added it to her list, calling it the 'noisy place'. 

_ Things. _ The phone battery. The door frame. Both pointed to a violent struggle, and surely Strike would have delivered some blows of his own. His phone; it had had signal, briefly, the morning after. Realisation dawned, and Robin suddenly knew that the kidnappers had inserted a new battery in order to copy his contacts. That was how they'd known her number. She struck the signal anomaly off her list; it would be no use to her now. A group that was smart enough to remove Strike's battery wouldn't replace it for any length of time.

She made more coffee, and sat back down, forcing herself to concentrate. She focused on the two phone calls. The kidnapper had been in the noisy place, and then in the place where Strike was being held. Were they one and the same? It didn't seem so. The noisy place was probably outdoors; she had heard tyres. Loud clatters. The word 'drop'. 'Place' could be anywhere, but 'drop'... A drop off? Could it be a factory or depot? Robin stared once more at the zone she had marked out. Thoughts were whirling around her head. Pat had thought Strike had said 'weight'... The kidnapper was in the noisy place at 4am… 'Place'...

Robin suddenly knew where the kidnapper had called her from, and why he had been there at 4am. She slammed her laptop closed, grabbed her coat, and ran out of the office. Fumbling to lock the door behind her, she dialled with the other hand.

"Shanker! I need your help, now!"


	6. Surveillance

"All right, Robs?" Shanker's familiar figure strolled around the corner and onto Newington Industrial Estate. Robin had told him only what she needed, not why, but he had agreed without question and without asking for payment. She had been stunned at his apparent generosity, but it seemed explained when he asked her without preamble, "Bunsen's missing then, is 'e?"

Robin narrowed her eyes at Shanker. "How did you know that?" she asked.

"People talk," he replied simply. "You don't fink 'e did 'imself an injury?"

Robin sighed and looked at her feet, the end of her scarf flapping in the wind. She wondered how many times she had already said this, and whether it would ever get easier.

"He's been taken, Shanker. The police are treating it as a kidnapping," she explained.

A shadow moved over Shanker's face, rendering it more menacing than Robin had ever seen it; she saw fury there, and the promise of violence. She was hit with the realisation that Strike was all Shanker had left of his childhood. Robin was suddenly glad she'd told him.

"Anyway, Shanker, I need help doing this because obviously I've never done it before," she said matter-of-factly.

"I can 'elp ya. I'll do it for ya," offered Shanker.

"No, you can't. I've got to do it on my own. I just need you to show me, and help me practise," said Robin.

So that was what they did: for three days, in and around the industrial estates of central London, they practised technique. Shanker gave Robin different examples to try and instructed her where the method needed to be adapted. They moved around frequently, so as not to draw attention to themselves, but Robin was still keen to stop at the slightest hint that they were being watched.

Robin had abandoned the rearranged meeting at Clapham Common; when the man with the rasping breath had called her, having been himself stood up, she was positioned at the noisy place, hoping it was another trick and that he would actually be here once more. However, she saw no one who seemed to fit the brief, so she assumed he had actually turned up for their meeting after all.

He had reacted with predictable coolness at her failure to arrive, but Robin could tell he knew that the tables had turned incrementally in her favour. She would never have dared to miss the meeting if she had no leads to act upon, because the meeting itself might have provided one; Robin's cheerful refusal to capitulate to the man's demands suggested that the hunter might have become the hunted.

Nevertheless, he had called her every day since, taunting her, trying to persuade her to meet him. He refused to allow her another second of conversation with Strike, despite her constant requests. Robin acknowledged that this might mean Strike was no longer being held by the man; he could have escaped, or he could have been moved, or he could have been… But Robin refused to think it. She had no way of knowing, and so her best option, her only option, was to continue with her plan.

She still had no idea what the man looked like, and this posed a significant problem; her plan depended on her recognising him by sight. She spent a long time considering how she would do this. She didn't want to engage anyone else, since the man with the rasping breath had noticed Barclay, but she was starting to fear that she had no choice. She was formulating a vague plan involving his phone calls; if she started a conversation about a specific topic and deployed Hutchins, who hadn't yet been seen with her, to walk around the noisy place, there was a chance he might overhear the conversation. If it worked, they would have their man.

The key problem was the sheer noise of that place; it was full of people talking, on phones and in person, and the chances of catching the man with one attempt were slim. She would need to stretch this out for several days while they tried to solve the puzzle, and she simply didn't have the time. It had already been over a week since Strike had been taken, and Robin was acutely aware of the decreasing likelihood of finding him in good health.

Alone in her flat, Robin finally succumbed to tears. This was the first time she had dealt with a criminal case without Strike, and she had never imagined that the stakes would be so high. She felt out of her depth; she was used to having Strike as a sounding board and mentor. What would he tell her now?  _ He'd tell you to pull yourself together _ , she thought, laughing through her tears. She pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table and wiped her face, trying to be positive. She wasn't alone. She had Barclay, Hutchins, Michelle, and even Shanker. Strike wouldn't be sitting here moping if it was Robin who'd been kidnapped. He'd go back over everything.  _ People. Places. Things.  _ The man with the rasping breath. The phone calls from the noisy place. The phone call at Clapham Common. He'd been watching her. He'd seen Barclay.

Robin felt a jolt as though she had fallen from a height; the man had seen Barclay. She'd discounted this information in her distress, but she recalled it vividly now. He'd told her he knew that she'd brought a man with her. A Scottish man.

She dialled quickly, not bothering to check the time or whether Barclay was supposed to be working or not.

"Sam?"

"Everythin' awright, Robin?" asked Sam cautiously. His tone made Robin check the time, and she cringed as she realised it was past midnight.

"I'm so sorry to bother you. Just a quick question. The day I asked you to come with me to Clapham Common, did you speak to anyone?" asked Robin.

"Nah, only you. Ah didnae tell anyone where we were meeting, ah wouldnae do that," Barclay assured her.

"No," said Robin urgently, "while you were there! Did anyone walk past you, and speak to you? Someone heard you speak, Sam!"

"Oh. Aye," he answered slowly. "A bloke walkin' his dug. He stopped in front of me. Ah said he was blocking my view o' the birds, and he moved."

"Bloody hell," Robin muttered. "What did he look like?"

"Really skinny. Tall though, like the gaffer. Straggly hair. Big 'ole in one ear, one o' them tunnel things," Barclay listed. "Ah cannae mind anythin' else."

"No, that's great, Sam, thank you," said Robin.

"We can help wi' this shite, ye ken, ye dinnae have to do it alone," insisted Barclay.

Robin felt touched, and the idea was tempting, but she couldn't risk the rest of them being identified. "Thanks, Sam. I'll let you know if I need you."

Robin rang off, and checked the time again. She had time to get a couple of hours' sleep before she had to stake out the noisy place once again.

***

Robin was in position at 3am, determined not to miss the man's arrival. Convinced, now, that he would be here again, she felt armed with the knowledge that she knew what he looked like. She had phoned Spanner. She had practised with Shanker. She was ready.

She was dressed from head to toe in black: long-sleeved t-shirt, cargo pants, and trainers with rubber soles. She had wound her hair into a tight bun and pinned it so that it held fast; she needed one hundred percent visibility and was taking no chances. Waiting behind a low wall across the road, in amongst the bushes, she was perfectly placed to watch the delivery drivers coming and going. The smell of fish pervaded her senses, and she was painfully reminded of a fish and chip shop, another stakeout, and an emaciated girl with a broken tooth.

Movement from her left alerted Robin to the arrival of a car, maroon and peeling, pulling up at the kerb opposite. She ducked even further, her heart pounding in her chest. She had seen this car leaving before, on her previous attempts at surveillance, but only now was she early enough to watch the driver emerge and slam the door behind him.

Tall and slim, but with ropey muscles banding his arms and chest, he had a wild, rabid look to him. Robin couldn't believe anyone would employ him looking as dirty and unkempt as he did, but she reflected that making wholesale deliveries probably didn't require an awful lot of presentability. He turned towards her, unknowing, and Robin looked into his large, wide-set eyes, hating him for what he had already done to her partner, and his family.

Whittaker strode away from the car, which he had left beside a sign that read 'no waiting', and disappeared into the market. Robin guessed that she would have only minutes. 

She walked quickly across the road, heading for the bollards that blocked vehicle access to the pedestrianised part of the market. At the last second, she swerved sideways and approached the car. She fought the urge to run, to duck behind it; she knew that she must hide in plain sight. She therefore remained as casual as possible as she removed the item Shanker had lent her from her trouser pocket.

Long, flat and made of stainless steel, it would have looked unremarkable to most people, but was clearly recognisable to those in the know as the key component needed to break into most older cars. Robin slid the tool into the gap beneath the glass window of the passenger door, and moved it as Shanker had taught her. The lock was stiff; it took a few seconds of struggling, but finally, the plastic indicator popped up. Robin removed the steel key and opened the door, glancing with satisfaction around the deserted street.

Robin clambered into the car, and manually locked the passenger door behind her. She noted that the car was as filthy as Whittaker himself; it was covered in empty fag and crisp packets, and it smelt strongly of sweat. She scrambled over the seats and dropped herself into the footwell at the back of the car, dragging newspapers, notebooks and an old rug from the general mess to cover herself with. She hid the glinting steel tool underneath her torso, where it dug uncomfortably into her ribs. She pressed her face into the car's floor, willing herself smaller, and invoking silent prayers that Whittaker would store his acquired goods in the boot, and not on the back seat.

The minutes passed. Robin tried to keep track, but she lost count around seven. She suspected it might have been longer. She resorted to running through every bit of information she'd been given in her mind; she remained sure that Whittaker would lead her to Strike. All she had to do was stay unnoticed. She focused on Strike. If all went well, she thought, she would be seeing him soon. She hadn't planned what she would do once she found him, but she knew she would think of something. They were in central London; there would be traffic, witnesses. All she had to do was raise the alarm. If things didn't go well, and she was caught… well, she thought grimly, the police might take a double kidnapping more seriously.

The driver's door burst open, and Robin heard something thrown onto the passenger seat. The boot was opened, and there was a heavy thud as what must have been boxes were piled into it. Two doors slamming shut, and a sudden increase in the foul smell; the car rumbled to life, and began to move.


	7. Hideout

Robin tried to remember the series of turns they took, but it was impossible. Instead she waited, her heart in her mouth, while Whittaker drove. The footwell of the car was hard and rough; it burned against her cheek as the old car groaned on. They made one stop; Robin heard Whittaker shifting things around in the boot, and assumed he was delivering whatever products he had brought from the market. Otherwise, the journey continued without incident, and Robin began to wonder just how long it would last.

Some time later - she guessed fifteen minutes, but she didn't trust her own timings - Robin felt the car slow and finally, stop. Her surroundings were quiet as Whittaker opened the door; she realised with some trepidation that she couldn't hear any other traffic. Whittaker walked away from the car, and Robin started to count once again.

When she reached four minutes, Robin figured she'd waited long enough, and slowly pushed herself into a cramped sitting position. She peered out of the car window towards a huge, empty warehouse that had fallen into disrepair. It stood alone; there must have been others, at some point, on the wide expanse of bare concrete, but they had evidently been torn down. The sole building seemed to have become a popular meeting point for those who were keen on energy drinks and strong cider, judging by the empty bottles that were strewn around its entrance.

Robin pushed open the car door and tumbled out, wincing as blood rushed back into her aching legs. Shaking off the pain, leaving everything besides her phone behind, she raced towards the near edge of the building. Slowly, step by step, she moved past each window, looking inside whenever she dared. Most of the windows were boarded up or led to completely empty rooms, but finally she caught a glimpse, around a corner, of a long corridor that seemed to have been lit by several camping lanterns.

Robin took a deep breath, grabbed the wooden sill of the broken window, and heaved herself up. She had no choice but to rest her knees along the jagged edge as she clambered inside; she forced herself not to yell as the glass sliced into her skin. Tumbling into the room, her eyes swept the darkness and found the open door that led to the corridor she had spotted. She crept silently towards the door, listening hard. 

Robin could hear the distant sounds of conversation, and she focused on the timbre of each voice, trying to commit them to memory. She guessed that there were three men: one was Whittaker, and the other voices were similarly brash. Robin walked quietly towards the corridor, away from the men's voices, looking for any other signs of life.

As she entered it, Robin realised that the corridor wasn't a corridor, but a wide hall that must have been used for storage when the building was functional. It had been adapted for use as a squat; there were several washing lines strung up, with sheets draped over them, creating individual living areas at the edges of the space. Robin noted the lanterns she had already seen, and there were portable camping stoves in the centre. Additional supplies were piled up against the walls: gas bottles, biscuits and chocolate bars, bottles of cheap vodka and energy drinks. Doors led off into other rooms, and Robin set about searching them, listening carefully and moving as silently as possible.

The first two were entirely empty. The third was locked. The fourth looked as though it had previously been lived in; there was a heavy wooden chair and table, a pile of rugs and blankets in the corner, and a two-litre plastic bottle that was half full of water. Robin brushed her hand across the blankets; they were cold. She headed for the exit, her mind already on the next room.

Voices sprung out of the silence, and Robin shrank back towards the blankets, eyes on the door that she hadn't closed behind her. She listened hard. The men had moved into the large hall, arguing between themselves in angry tones.

"There ain' no point in keepin' 'im any more!"

"I say there is, an' you do as I say, Rick, 'ow many times do I need ter say it?" said Whittaker. "You know 'oo 'is dad is. 'E's got money stacked up somewhere, 'is mum'd never 'and it over, but 'e will when I'm finished," he snarled.

"The cops'll be all over us, 'e's right in their pockets, I'm tellin' ya," insisted Rick.

"And I'm tellin'  _ you _ , 'e stays until I says I'm done wiv 'im," Whittaker said menacingly.

"You could toss a coin for it," called out a third voice.

Robin clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from yelping; she was so relieved to hear Strike's voice that she had temporarily forgotten just how precarious her situation was. She listened to Whittaker entering a room somewhere to her right, and then the unmistakable sounds of physical chastisement. Resigned to waiting in this room until the men left again, Robin pulled out her mobile. Now that she knew Strike was in the warehouse, she tried to call DS Wyatt. However, her signal was patchy; several times she managed to elicit a couple of rings before it cut out, but sometimes she got no dial tone at all.

Panicking slightly, Robin sat on the edge of the pile of rugs and tried to come up with a more robust plan. She checked the time: it was almost 6am, and she realised with a start that Whittaker would probably call her soon, as he had done daily since he had stood her up at Clapham Common. Double checking that her phone was switched to silent, she knew there was nothing for it but to ignore the call; she couldn't risk them hearing her voice.

Robin spent a torturous day confined in the musty room, alternating between trying to dial out with her intermittent signal and switching off her phone to preserve its battery. She had reached the tentative conclusion that she must escape the warehouse to call the police, and her best chance was at 4am the next morning, when she knew at least Whittaker would be absent. From the snippets of conversation she had heard, she surmised that Whittaker was the leader; she was almost certain that the others would do nothing to her until he got back, should they catch her. It wasn't much, but it was all she had.

Some time in the early evening, not trusting the unsealed bottle of water, Robin managed to sneak a bottle of energy drink from a stack close to her door. Crawling so that she wouldn't be seen, she crept back to her room and managed to swing the door almost closed with her foot, figuring that she could at least move around in front of the doorway without being spotted.

The energy drink was sweet and sticky on Robin's tongue, but it was liquid. It made her feel jittery, though, and the chances of her getting any sleep were looking increasingly slim. Her thoughts were drawn to Strike, probably less than fifty yards from her. She couldn't stop herself picturing him, probably tied, probably injured. Had they fed him enough? Was he in pain? She wished she could convey some signal to him that she was here, and that she was trying to get him out. She was  _ going _ to get him out.

Robin had never felt worse. Alone, aching, hungry, and acutely aware that both she and Strike were in physical danger, she wondered what the hell she had been thinking. Caught up in a wave of revelations, she had made her plans without properly thinking them through. What would happen, now, if she were captured along with Strike? Information didn't exist until it was passed on, and she hadn't been able to tell anyone where she was.

But another emotion was kindling within her: she felt her anger rise up like a snake. Whittaker was a poison that had seeped through Strike's life since he was a child, and she knew he would never be fully at peace until Whittaker was behind bars or under the earth. Robin's fury radiated out to the police, too; they were fools and they should have taken her seriously. If she survived, she vowed to herself, she would give them hell. She thought viciously that she might even go to the press.

As the early morning approached, Robin used the crack between door and frame to watch two of the three men rise from their sleeping bags and start to dress. Eavesdropping on their plans, Robin learnt that Whittaker and the unnamed man were heading out on jobs; Rick was staying until later in the morning. She waited for the two to leave before grabbing her phone once more.

One last attempt, she told herself. One last attempt to call, and then she would go. She dialled, tense, grasping the phone so hard her fingers hurt. It was ringing.

"DC Wyatt's line," said a brisk female voice.

"It's Robin Ellacott," whispered Robin.

"Excuse me?" asked the voice.

"Robin. Ellacott," she whispered, enunciating each syllable.

"I can't hear you, please speak up," said the voice loudly, as though by raising her own volume she could increase the caller's.

"Trace. This. Call -"

"I'm afraid I can't hear you, please call again on a better line. If it's an emergency you should call 999," and the woman hung up.

"Shit!" burst out Robin. The word echoed in the near-empty space, and it hung there for a still second or two while the implications of the sudden stillness outside hit her. "Oh, shit," Robin mumbled under her breath, and she moved swiftly. The heavy wooden table squeaked as it was dragged across the room, coming to a halt directly opposite the doorway.

The sleeping bag rustled as the zip was pulled swiftly down its track. Some more rustling, and the bag was cast aside. A few steps outside the door, and a sharp click.

As the door was pushed towards her, Robin, standing in front of the table and leaning back on it with both her hands, braced herself. The door swung open; Robin leant all of her weight on the table and launched both feet forwards, slamming into Rick's chest like a battering ram. They both crashed to the ground, Rick's head bouncing sickeningly off the stone floor like a rubber ball, the flick knife flying out of his hand and skittering away. 

Robin stood up slowly, shaken. She felt a searing pain in her elbow that told her she might have fractured it. She looked down at Rick's body, out cold, and felt a fleeting stab of panic at the damage she might have done. But she had no time to dwell on it. She and Strike were now effectively alone, and she could do one better than escaping to call the police. She was going to get him.

After a second's deliberation, she walked over and picked up the knife Rick had dropped, holding it to the fore as she proceeded through the dark warehouse.


	8. Reunion

Robin padded quietly through the hall, trying to force herself to remember where Strike's voice had come from. She knew that it had been to her right, so she headed in that direction. Moving fast, she kicked aside the discarded sleeping bags, and proceeded to a closed wooden door in the far corner. She took a deep, steadying breath, and twisted the handle.

The sight that confronted her sent a wave of nausea through her stomach. Strike was huddled in the corner, half asleep, wearing jeans and a jumper, and only one shoe. Half of his face was distorted and swollen; it looked like he'd been hit in the head several times, and his eye socket and cheekbone were purple. His arms were tied together at the elbows, and then tied to an exposed pipe. His prosthesis had been removed and discarded; it had been thrown out of reach, as though Strike might have escaped if he could only reach it.

"Cormoran?" Robin said softly. "Cormoran, wake up."

She crossed to him and dropped to her knees. She pulled the ropes towards her and started sawing through them with the flick knife, one eye on the doorway.

Strike's eyes fluttered open, and Robin watched realisation dawn in them as he took her in. She was a mess: her clothes were dirty, her hair had fallen out of its bun and was tumbling around her grazed face, her knees were ripped and bloody. And yet Strike looked at her as though she were a cool drink of water on a summer's day. He tried to sit up, and his eyes flicked down to her hands as he realised what she was doing.

"Robin," he croaked. "Robin, you shouldn't be here."

"Too late for that," Robin replied, still sawing. She broke through the first loop and started working on the second. Tears streamed silently down her face, but she fought to keep her tone light.

"How did you -"

"No time," said Robin. The second loop broke with a snap and she pulled the remnants away from Strike's arms. She darted away to pick up the prosthesis and held it out to him. To her confusion, Strike looked at her sadly, shaking his head.

"I can't. Whittaker - it won't go back on. You need to go. He'll be back soon, he only goes to -"

"Billingsgate Fish Market, I know. He picks up fish orders from there and delivers them. So come on, you need to move," she insisted. 

In explanation, Strike raised his trouser leg and showed her the end of his right shin. The skin was bloody and raw, and Robin didn't want to imagine what Whittaker had done to remove the prosthesis. She swallowed hard, and then raised her eyes to Strike's, glaring at him defiantly.

"You listen to me. I am not. Leaving. Without you," said Robin, pausing to emphasise each word. "We'll treat this when we get home, but for now you are going to ignore it. You're going to suck it up, and put that prosthesis back on, and we are walking out of here," she finished vehemently, eyes burning into his.

Strike held her gaze for a second, and then his resolve seemed to harden. He reached out a hand, took the prosthesis from Robin, and started the laborious process of strapping it back on. He looked back at her several times, as though he needed to draw strength from her. He pushed his trouser leg back down over the prosthesis, and pushed himself into a more upright position.

However, it soon became apparent that Strike could bear no weight on his right leg. Slowly, alongside a flurry of grunts and profanities, Robin tried to help him stand up. She attempted to use the wall to help support him, but it was clear that he would not be able to walk without significant help. Robin pulled out her phone, saw that she had no signal once again, and put her head in her hands, cursing.

"Robin, go! Leave me here, and run, and ring the police from outside. You can direct them back here." Robin looked at Strike's earnest, exhausted face and wavered, unsure. "Please, Robin," he begged her. 

Fear and frustration mingled with recklessness in Robin's overwrought mind, and she was desperate to drag him away, to pull him to safety, to curl up in his arms and just stay there. She gripped his hands in both of hers, stifled a sob, and spoke in a shaky voice.

"I will be back. With the police. I'll fucking drag them here if I have to," she muttered. Strike nodded slowly, and reached for her face. He softly caressed her cheek, and Robin's breath caught as she leant into his touch. "Go," he repeated.

Robin stood, her back to the open door. As she backed away from Strike, she felt a surge of hope and optimism; she suddenly felt sure there would be something more for them when they got out of this hell. Then she saw Strike's eyes widen, and she whirled; Whittaker was standing in the doorway, a nasty sneer on his gaunt face.

"Well, well. I knew ya'd change your mind an' meet me aftr'all," he said. "They can' resist me, can they, fackin' Sherlock?"

Whittaker stepped slowly into the room, Robin backing up until she was pressed against the pipe that had been Strike's anchor. Strike struggled on the ground, trying to stand but only managing to drag himself closer to Robin. She took some small comfort from his closeness, even though he could do nothing.

"The police are coming," said Robin shakily. "On their way now."

"Is that right? Even though ya don' 'ave any signal?"

Robin's anxious glance down at the phone in her hand gave her away, and Whittaker cackled.

"I'm not a fackin' idiot," he said, stepping closer. "If they was comin' ya'd already be gone." Robin gripped her phone harder, preparing to use it as a weapon if she had to. The knife, she realised, was useless on the floor beside Strike.

"What do you want?"

"Yer boyfriend fackin' ruined my life, did 'e tell ya that? Accused me o' fackin' murder. Nev'r got any dough from 'is mum, 'e 'ad it squirreled away somewhere from 'is rich fackin' daddy," Whittaker kept coming, a crazed twitch in his eye. "Well, I fink it's abaht time I saw some compensation, innit?"

"I think you'll be waiting a while for that," said Robin quietly.

Two quick steps echoed through the space, and then Shanker backhanded Whittaker across the back of the head with an earsplitting crash. Whittaker crumpled, revealing Shanker's livid face, looking down at the feebly stirring body of the man he had hated. Neither the crash nor the blood now seeping from Whittaker's head made any sense to Robin until she saw the camping stove clutched in Shanker's fist. Robin sank to the floor beside Strike, laughing and crying in equal measure.

Shanker bent down to crouch over Whittaker, and raised the stove again. But a stern voice shouted, "Stuart!" Robin and Strike looked up, shocked; a beat later, Wardle entered, leading Barclay, Michelle, and Vanessa. Shanker lowered his hand, and Strike's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline.

"You awright, mate?" asked Barclay, moving towards Strike. The others came to help and, between them, they helped Strike to sit on a chair that had been dragged in. 

"What the  _ fuck _ are you all doing here?" demanded Strike.

"Mate," said Barclay sternly. "You kick one o' us, we all limp."

Strike could evidently think of nothing to say to that, and closed his mouth, looking sideways at Robin.

"I left a tracking device in the car," she said, shrugging. She turned to Barclay. "Spanner?"

"Yeah, he's outside wi' Hutchins. Didnae want to come in."

"Good," said Robin. She turned to Wardle. "Is there any chance you could call this in, now? Wyatt's been completely fucking useless, by the way."

"I've already done it, they're on their way," said Wardle. His expression was apologetic. "We're just faster."

"Didya 'ear that, Bunsen? I'm faster'n the coppers," interjected Shanker, grinning.

"I always knew that, mate," returned Strike.


	9. Recovery

St Thomas' Hospital sat on the bank of the Thames and boasted, by anyone's standards, one of the most impressive views in London. If receiving heart treatment, a patient could look out at Big Ben and Westminster Bridge. However, those attending the diabetes clinic were on the other side of the building, and looked out at a motorcycle repair shop and an artisan bakery. It was difficult to tell whether such things had been done deliberately.

When news travelled through A&E of the imminent arrival of two injured detectives, the doctors in attendance wondered if it would be  _ the _ detectives - the famous ones - the ones everyone talked about. Rumour had it that the man had gone missing. The automatic door opened with an electronic swish, and Strike and Robin entered the hospital to a hum of excited chatter.

Some time later, Robin was perched on a hospital bed, her left arm in a sling, her knees stitched. She had been given some toast that had taken the edge off her hunger, but she could think of little else but leaving to find the nearest burger bar. Strike had been wheeled away from her the instant they'd arrived, grumbling with bad grace about being in a wheelchair. Robin wondered how he was doing; it had been several hours.

The curtain swung back and a doctor arrived, with a courtesy smile and a shrink-wrapped needle. "Tetanus shot, and then you can go," he said. Robin sighed and rolled up her sleeve. "There's a bloke shouting the place down asking for you. Just across the corridor there," the doctor continued.

He pulled on gloves and deftly unwrapped the needle. Robin smiled, tears pooling in her eyes again. The doctor slid the needle in and pushed down on the plunger. "Bay four, far end, on the right," he said. He disposed of the needle and its wrappings, removed his gloves, and washed his hands in a nearby sink. "Is it the painkillers talking, or did you really save his life?"

"I don't know. Bit of both, I suppose," said Robin with a weak smile.

***

Over the next few days, press attention once more erupted around them, and the detectives suspended all of their active cases while they waited it out. There were fewer stairs to Robin's flat, so that was where they went; Max had insisted on moving in with his boyfriend for four weeks while Strike took his room and recuperated.

As the days slid into June, the weather became unseasonably hot. Robin returned to the flat one morning with carrier bags full of food, and she had felt upbeat enough in the morning sunshine to buy a bottle of cheap champagne. A celebratory mood had taken hold of her, and she climbed the stairs to the living room, beaming as she took in the sight of Strike sitting slantwise along the cream sofa, a cup of tea clutched in his big hand.

"Want some help?" he offered, returning her smile.

"Nah, you're all right. Let's not push it," said Robin cheerfully.

Strike's leg had been healing well, and he'd made excellent progress, according to the physiotherapist who visited every two days. He was walking short distances and could now complete most tasks unaided. He still needed help navigating the staircase, narrow and steep as it was, but it was thankfully short and he had long since forgotten any embarrassment at having Robin help him. 

A strange dynamic had emerged between them. They were living, certainly as flatmates, but almost like they were in a long established, but platonic, relationship. They shared meals and chores, they watched movies together, and they chatted into the night, drinking wine and eating Strike's cooking, which had turned out to be far better than Robin would have guessed.

Today, though, Robin had pre-ordered Thai food, to be delivered at the flat later that evening, and she spent a happy afternoon completing menial household tasks, singing all the while. Strike watched the motor racing and occasionally helped, folding and sorting and throwing casual jokes Robin's way. She still enjoyed his humour; he looked happier than he'd been since he had seen her walk into his makeshift cell holding a grubby knife.

Later, when the kao pad had been demolished, and the champagne popped, the partners took their glasses over to the sofa and toyed with the idea of turning the TV on, but decided to leave it off. Turning to face Robin head on, Strike tipped his glass towards hers.

"To the finest private detective in London," he said, clinking the glasses together. Robin noted the lack of plural, and laughed.

"I don't know about that. A lot of people helped."

"Are you going to tell me how you did it?" Strike asked.

"Well I don't know, are you going to give me shit for being reckless?" Robin replied. Strike laughed, and held his hands up.

"No shit from me. Promise," he said.

"Well, I suspected you'd been taken when I tried to call you and you had no signal. I thought you would have told me if your plans had changed," she said tentatively.

"I would have," agreed Strike.

Mollified, Robin continued. "But it was Pat who gave me the key to finding you."

"Pat?" said Strike incredulously. "The whole agency really came through then?"

Robin laughed. "Whittaker called me, and it was really noisy in the background. I heard the words 'drop' and 'place'. I discounted them at the time… no sleep, no help from the police. I was knackered." Robin couldn't help the note of self-justification in her voice. "Then Pat told the police that you'd said that you were sorry for her wait, and she thought you meant  _ weight, _ you know." She pointed to her stomach, echoing Wyatt. "And then I realised. It wasn't 'place', it was  _ plaice. _ The fish." She swam her hand along an invisible sea.

Strike looked at her for a couple of seconds, and then burst out laughing. Robin joined in, and the release was cathartic; she wiped tears from her eyes, wondering if she had any more tears left in her. At least these were finally happy ones.

"Why didn't the police help more?" asked Strike, his brow furrowing.

"I think I messed things up. I kept blushing when I told them about you, because, well, they were asking me if there was anything… you know. Anything between us." She paused, deliberating how much more to say. "I'd also lied to Pat about where you were. You'd told me you didn't like her prying, and when you didn't turn up, I thought you might have been - with a woman," she said, blushing furiously. "I think they thought you were cheating on me and I was overreacting."

Strike blew out a breath, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Well, I wouldn't have been… I haven't been 'with a woman'," he made air quotes with his fingers, grinning, "since Lorelei." 

Robin was embarrassed, and wished she didn't have such a pale complexion; she could feel even more blood rushing to her face. "I wasn't trying to -" she began.

"I know, Robin. But I don't want you to get the wrong end of the stick," Strike said simply. "When Whittaker and his band of dickheads took me, I was sitting at my kitchen table with your number pulled up on my phone. I couldn't stop thinking about… before you left the office. I wondered if - whether you might -" Strike looked suddenly sheepish, and covered his eyes briefly with his hand. "For fuck's sake. This is harder than it should be," he murmured.

"I might be able to make it easier," said Robin. She realised that her hands were shaking. "When I left the office, I only got to the tube station at Tottenham Court Road, and then I turned back. I came all the way back to the office, but it was locked, and you'd gone. I don't know whether you were upstairs, or you'd already been -"

"Why did you come back, Robin?" Strike leaned fractionally closer, his arm over the back of the sofa. Robin closed her eyes, inhaling his scent, trying to calm her racing heart. When she opened her eyes, Strike's were burning into hers, waiting for her answer.

"I came back… because I wanted to kiss you," she whispered. She watched Strike's pupils dilate.

"Do you still want to?" asked Strike softly.

"Yes," admitted Robin.

"Thank fuck for that," murmured Strike, and he leaned forward, wound one hand around her waist, and kissed her. 

His mouth was warm and inviting, his lips soft against hers; elation buzzed through Robin's veins as she melted into his embrace. She whimpered quietly as he stroked her back, his slow kiss deepening with every passing second. Robin wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the feel of being entwined with him, finally, the way she'd imagined for so long. 

Strike pulled away, and his voice was low and gravelly as he spoke in a whisper. "There's just one problem," he said.

"What?" asked Robin, her overwrought heart sinking.

"I told you to take a taxi," said Strike, smiling against her skin.

"Oh, shut up," said Robin, and she pulled him to her to kiss her again.


	10. Epilogue

"My shout this time, Bunsen," said Shanker, and he ambled to the bar to secure another two pints of London Pride. Strike watched him go, still amazed that Shanker had helped Robin in the way he had; without hesitation or bargaining, and eventually doing far more than she had asked for. Strike knew that Shanker held Robin in high esteem, and he wondered whether it was concern for Strike or admiration for Robin that had compelled Shanker to get so heavily involved.

Shanker returned to their table clutching two pint glasses and pushed one across to Strike.

"Cheers… Stuart," said Strike, eyebrow raised. Shanker laughed.

"Yeah, well, I weren' gonna tell a copper me name's Shanker, were I?" He shook his head at his friend's shortsightedness.

"Who's Stuart, then?"

"Bloke 'oo nicked me stash, coupla monfs ago," said Shanker casually. "Wouldn't mind the rozzers lookin' 'im up," he added, and Strike laughed.

"I still don't know how you ended up with Wardle," said Strike.

"It were all cos o' your Robin. She'd got in the fackin' car, she wouldn' tell me that's what she were doin', but I weren' born yesterday. So I goes to your office to find 'er, see if she were back, an' that Vanessa were there. Wanted to speak to Robs. I tole 'er what I fort Robin'd done, an' she got that Wardle," Shanker gave the police officers' names gingerly, as though he were unsure that a police officer could have a normal, human name.

"Anyway, your Barclay turned up, an' then we figured what 'ad 'appened, and then your computer guy phones, says Robs'd tole 'im to track some dot… it were all a bit mad," he said, shaking his head. "That Wardle were all right, though. Wanted to 'elp. I fort we could use a guy wiv a gun, but 'e tells me 'e ain't got one and I ain't allowed to borrow one. Bloody useless, innee."

Strike was laughing hard. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and took a long pull on his pint. After a few moments, he looked at Shanker and said quietly, "Whittaker's going to jail."

Shanker's smile turned into a snarl. "Ain' no jail bad enough f'that bastard, Bunsen."

"Well, at least you got to whack him with a camping stove," said Strike bracingly.

"Bes' moment of me fackin' life," said Shanker.

The two men drank and talked for most of the afternoon, never touching on their shared childhood, but frequently praising the woman who had stepped in and saved Strike at his lowest ebb. It had not escaped Strike that Robin had done for him almost exactly what Leda had done for Shanker. Strike didn't underestimate the powerful wave of fury and memory that must have hit Shanker when he had walked in and seen Whittaker again threatening a woman in his life; Strike supposed he could only be impressed that Shanker had stopped short of killing him.

"Cheers for this, Shanker. And for - you know -"

"Shut up, Bunsen, or I'll start finkin' you're goin' soft on me. Jus' do me a favour, and get fackin' goin' wi' Robs, will ya? It's fackin' exhaustin' watchin' the both of ya bloody pantin' ov'r each other."

Amused, Strike found that he didn't resent the interest from Shanker. "I'm going back to her place, now," he confided.

"Top job. Didya get some then, Bunsen?"

"Shanker, you're fucking terrible," said Strike, smiling despite himself.

"Yer, I know. Ey, she's a fackin' belter though, your Robs," he said keenly.

"Yeah, she is," agreed Strike. He stood, drained his pint, and nodded his goodbye. He left the pub with a genial wave, striding into the sunny street, towards Robin and home.


End file.
